as i am building this house

It was the kind of heat that made everything feel stretched thin. The sky hung low and heavy. We were driving a dead end jungle road toward the ocean—a coastline of smooth stones polished by centuries of sighing tides. then, a half-mile hike down the cliff from where we left the car half-hidden in the brush.

The air between us was loud how unspoken things tend to be. Skin against hot stone. Then rain, sudden and generous, drawing steam from the ground, forming patterns, turning stones black and slick.

We waded in past the drop off. blackness beneath dangling feet. Faces inches apart. Rain stitched tiny rivers from brows to chin. drops of truth on eye lashes. invisible tiger sharks circling.

i wanted to tell him that being next to him feels like the air is giving me a hug. he’s got the kind of goodness that rearranges you, quiets the voices. Like clean water. Like ripe fruit in your palm. it ripples around him like a stream carries light across its surface. proof he carries without knowing - that a world could still be solid and strong and made of soft beautiful things.

there is something shocking about the grace of his being, the way he wears his imperfections like a chain. i feel at home in his gaze and lazy words and close my eyes while he goes on and wake up sunburnt somehow in the rain.